


Did Somebody Say Beef Bourguignon?

by ava_jamison



Category: Lois & Clark: The New Adventures of Superman, Lois Lane (Comics), Lois Lane - All Media Types, Superman (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Banter, F/M, Love, Romance, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 11:28:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12580844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ava_jamison/pseuds/ava_jamison
Summary: An evening at home with Lois and Clark.





	Did Somebody Say Beef Bourguignon?

**Author's Note:**

> Title from this comic, the first one in which Clark Kent and Lois Lane spent the night together. She wears the same outfit to work the next day! And is singing! [Superman 297](https://imgur.com/a/K6Ky5)
> 
> Much later...

The elevator reached their floor with a ping, doors sliding open to reveal Clark in the hallway, heading for the apartment, a bag of groceries in each arm. 

Lois tucked the hangers of the plastic garment bags she carried over her arm and ran to catch up. “Clark!”

“Hi, hon,” he said, juggling bags a little and twisting to kiss her hello. “You picked up the dry cleaning?”

“Too late.”

“Same Day Cleaners?

“They close at nine.”

“Oh, it’s later than I thought.” The grocery sacks tipped as he checked his watch, spilling mail on the floor, along with three oranges and an apple. They both bent to pick it all up.

“Me too. Last-minute edits on the Peterman Foundation story—”

Clark sighed in commiseration. “At least it’s Friday?”

“Yeah, like the news—like any of it stops for the weekend.”

“Well, it’s Friday, reporter. And I’m making dinner.” He hefted the groceries in his arms like balancing a scale before trying to wrap one arm around both paper bags.

“What are you doing?” She pushed him from the door. “I got it.”

“Your key’s always lost in the bottom—”

“No it’s not.” She stuck the mail she was still holding on top of groceries and dug in her purse. “So after I put the copy on Perry’s desk—after, of course, Perry had left for the day,” she rolled her eyes at Clark. “I ran to Macy’s”

“Found something you like?” 

“I always do.” She gave up on her purse and slithered her hand into his pocket.

“Hey!”

“Getting the door, Clark!” she said, pretending his key was just a little harder to fish out than it was. She unlocked the door and opened it, winking at him.

He smiled, brown paper crunching as he reached to push back his glasses. “That purse of yours is like the fifth dimension.”

“Any chance to put my hand in your pants.” Standing on tiptoes, she peeked into the grocery bag as he passed. “Did my check come?”

“I don’t think so…” 

She bumped the door shut with her hip. 

In the kitchen, Clark set the bags on the counter and pulled the mail off of the lettuce. Yanking his tie loose, he sorted through it. “Let’s see. Bill, bill, junk mail, important offer—”

“Very important offer?”

“Very. We could already be a winner. New Sears card, time for your dental check-up, Macy’s bill—” He looked over at the three hangers on her arm.

“They were having a huge sale, Clark! You don’t know how many people I had to elbow to get these.”

“Bill, junk mail, cell phone bill—”

“I’m taking two of them back. I wanted to see which one you liked.”

“I bet they’re all pretty on you, Lois.”

“I have to look good for my brilliant husband’s award dinner!”

“It’s just a small—” 

“For a great story, Clark Kent.”

Clark took out the lettuce and milk and headed for the fridge.

“No check, huh?” She flipped through the mail herself. 

“It’ll get here. They’re not going to stiff this year’s winner of the Scripps-Howard.” Clark stacked tuna, mayo and pickles in their tiny cupboard of a pantry. 

She opened an envelope. "Electric bill's down a little this month."

"Well, when both of us are gone all the time—"

"Thanks for picking up groceries. We haven’t had dinner together in what—a week?”

“Two, maybe.”

“Too long.” 

He folded the grocery bag and put it under the sink. She put the mail on the counter that separated their kitchen from their small dinette and eyeballed the groceries he’d left out. “Ma’s meatloaf?” 

Clark’s voice was muffled because he was pulling his white chef’s apron over his head. “Can’t have beef bourguignon every night.”

“Haven’t,” she said slowly, pulling the straps around his back and tying them in front for him, “haven’t had beef bourguignon for a while now.”

He raised an eyebrow, reaching to get a box from above the sink. “And we’re almost out of cornflakes.”

Lois toed off her pumps, slinging them on her finger. “Whose fault’s that?”

“The cornflakes?” 

“Yeah, Clark.” She mimed lobbing a shoe at him. “You know I don’t mean the cornflakes.”

“Where’s the rolling pin?”

“Next drawer? Wait—the other one. And nobody’s fault,” Lois said over her shoulder. “I’m trying on my dresses.”

“Three-way tie between you, me and Mother Nature...” 

“What?” she called from the hallway. 

“Fault.”

“The floods and that earthquake didn’t help.”

She heard him clanking around, pulling out dishes. He had a mixing bowl half-filled with whatever brand of vegetarian meat substitute he liked this month and was measuring out cornflakes by the time she waltzed back in and twirled, barefoot, in the tiny breakfast nook.

Clark wolf-whistled. 

“Thought you’d like it.” She smoothed burgundy fabric over her hips. “Sleeveless, though. I’ll need to bring a wrap—”

“And shoes.” The cornflakes crunched under Clark’s rolling pin. “You could wear those really nice red ones—”

“Does it look okay in the back?” 

“Don’t know if I should tell you this, but I can see your panty line, Miss Lane.”

“Really?” Lois tried to peer over her shoulder, flicking at the satin that clung to her butt. “I looked in the mirror and I didn’t see… Where do you see a line, Clark? I’m wearing a thong.”

“A black lace thong.”

“Okay—” Lois crossed her arms. “That was cheating, Kent.”

“Not cheating.” Clark dumped the crushed flakes into the bowl. “That dress’s pretty thin.” 

“Hmph. Well I won’t be wearing panties with it.”

Clark sounded like he tried to keep the leer out of his voice. Some of it, anyway. “Really?”

“Hmph,” she said again, over her shoulder. “Yeah, really.” 

By the time she got back, in dress number two, he had the meatloaf in the oven and was washing potatoes. “Ta da!” This one was black and silky. “So?”

“It’s nice…”

“Just nice? No panty-line this time. And I’m wearing the shoes.”

He turned off the faucet, wiping his hands on his apron, and came around the counter so he could see. “Uh—I meant the other shoes.”

“Other shoes?”

“They’re red, really nice and—” 

“Uh-huh, Smallville. The stilettos? The ones I can’t even walk in?” 

“Don’t remember you doing much walking in them last time…”

“Clark!” 

The phone rang and Clark picked it up.

He was hanging up his apron, phone jammed between his ear and shoulder, when she got back. “No, thank you. No, we’re not interested, ma’am… no thank you. No, no… Thank you, but no. I have to go. Goodbye!” He put the phone on the hook. “Wow!” 

She cocked her head at him. “Come see.”

He rounded the formica to where she stood next to their little table. This dress was deep, ruby red and slinky, tiny straps, cut low in the front and the back. It had a slit up the side, and slowly she extended her leg, letting him see it and the shoes. The shoes.

“Um, yeah.” Clark cleared his throat. “Yes. I like this one—”

She crooked a finger at him and pulled out a chair from the dinette. “Sit down, Smallville.” 

“The potatoes—” he said, but he was grinning as their eyes met—really met, and the dinette chair squeaked as he slid into it. 

“Are you,” she said, turning a slow pirouette for him, hands on her hips, “Sure you like this one best?”

He swallowed. 

She put her hand on his shoulder, feeling the hard muscle beneath it, and swung her foot up to rest on his leg, pointed little heel digging into the meat of his thigh.

“I do like…” he swallowed again, reached out to curve his palm around her heel. “The shoes.”

“Mmm.” She reached for his tie, eyes narrowing, and pulled it. “Is that all?”

“And the dress.”

“Really?” 

“And the woman in it.” He slid her leg up and over him and she let out a surprised little ‘oh!’ as he pulled her against him. 

“Oh,” she said again, straddled across his thighs. “And I do mean, oh, Mr. Clark Kent.” She rocked forward, just once, on his lap.

He put one hand on each side of her face and pulled her in for a kiss. It was sweet and warm and perfect, and then it got a little more awkward, because she was trying to lift up far enough to get his fly unzipped. “Miss Lane, you’re so forward.”

“It’s Mrs. Kent.” 

His teeth clacked hers and she pulled back with a smile. “And you love it.”

“Are you trying to get in my pants, Mrs. Kent?”

“Trying, Smallville.” 

“Mmm.” He reclaimed her mouth, gentle but fervent. “Let me help you.” He lifted her up, strong hands supporting her hips, gripping her through the cool satin of her dress.

“Oh, Mr. Kent,” she said, slowly pulling down his zipper. “You really are super.”

He blushed but he groaned, shifting her body in his arms, pulling her closer, hands skimming up her ankles and calves, smoothing up the bare skin of her thighs, pushing up the silky dress—

“Lois!” he gasped. 

“Mmm, yeah, Clark. No underwear.” She gave his dick a kind of hello squeeze, shoving down his shorts enough to take him out. “We’ll just have to work around yours.”

“Oh, Lois,” he said into her mouth, tongue chasing hers. One of his big, warm palms skated across her stomach, fingers working lower and lower… He buried his face against her neck, breathing deeply. 

“Oh, Clark. Seems like you need a little—” She held him in her hand, hard and heavy and blatant. “…attention.”

He hummed against her skin, mouth trailing along the side of her neck, making love to her throat, finding that spot right under her earlobe and she had to grip his shoulders so hard the chair creaked, had to lift her body up to ride him.

He dug his hands into the rounded muscle of her ass, shoving red fabric out of the way and she wrapped her legs around his steel torso. “Slow, Clark. I want to feel every inch.”

Inhaling sharply, he nodded, easing her down. He held her, open and ready and lowered her down on him, guiding himself slowly into her, taking her, filling her, and they both stilled, eyes locked. He held her face in his hand and stroked her cheek with his thumb.

She grabbed his tie and pulled him in for another kiss. 

He tipped his hips toward her and she felt her eyes roll back in her head for a split second, then let her fingers scrabble to get his shirt open. She got the first four buttons undone with only one of the discs popping off and bouncing across the floor and then she could run her hands across the solid wall of muscle that trembled under her touch. She palmed the smooth skin of his taut, flat abdomen, ran the pad her index finger over the soft line of hair that began at his navel, dusting down, curling thickly to where her body joined his. 

He shivered and shifted, rolling his abs up and her body with it like a wave, cresting very slowly. Tender and hot and pushing him deeper into her, turning her molten—and him too—she knew by way he was holding himself back, holding himself so carefully in check, holding her like she was a china doll who could break at any moment. 

She leaned back and ignored the creak of the chair, instead listened to the way she made him gasp as he shifted inside her. 

He bent to press his face against her breasts, rubbing his cheek over the exposed skin of her cleavage, nudging the strap of her dress with his nose and teeth until it slipped down her arm, so he could mouth her bared breasts, softly sucking and tonguing. 

She rolled her hips, just feeling him—inside her, all around her—all the raw power he was holding back. Keeping in check, just for her. She slid her hands over his firm, lightly flushed chest, working between his warm, almost golden skin and the cool white cotton of his shirt to slip higher and feel—really feel—the strength and magnificence of his biceps and shoulders. She gripped each broad, strong shoulder and lifted herself up on him, sunk back down. Did it again. “Aren’t you ready, Clark?”

He blinked at her, focused his eyes. His voice was just a hoarse whisper. “Ready for what?”

“Ready to take over.”

His eyelids fluttered, and he caught his breath. His smile was wry but blinding. “I won’t last.”

“God, Smallville, me either.” She grabbed his wrist, forcing his hand just a little faster, just a little harder. He grinned and cradled the nape of her neck in his other palm, pushed up into her and then she was coming—coming against his big hand, coming around his big, wonderful dick, shaking and trembling as he took her through it, shoving in and in.

The chair protested, though. Something cracked and one of the legs started to give way.

With a groan he lifted her—stood, and it was obscene, to be carried this way, still like this with him inside her, her arms and legs wrapped around him in the kitchen—their kitchen—

“Bedroom?” 

“Can’t wait—”

And then she felt the countertop under her back, her feet still not on the ground, his arms protecting her shoulders from the cool formica.

“Oh, Clark,” she whispered, yanking his hips to make him take her deeper. “It’s been too long. Just give it to me.”

He moaned and ran his hands down to her hips, stabbing roughly—not enough to hurt her, never that—but in a stuttering, hot, primal rhythm, taking her and finally really fucking her. She wrapped her legs around him, urging him on with her feet, the sides of the red stilettos rubbing against his perfect glutes, and she felt him flex inside her. His hips pistoned forward and he grabbed her shoulders, pulling her up and close. One more time and he cried out her name as he poured himself inside her. 

When she came back to herself, came back to the moment, to their kitchen, to a rumpled husband whose glasses were askew, she sat up as best she could, accidentally knocking the mail onto the floor. They both stared at it but neither one moved to do anything about it. 

“Mmm, that was nice,” she said into his shoulder, when she finally said anything. 

He nodded against her neck. “I might even use stronger words…”

“The potatoes are boiling over.”

“Hmm,” Clark said, absently stroking her arm. “So they are.”

“Okay, let me lean up a little, Smallville. My back is—” 

“Oh! Sorry Lois.” He slowly let her go enough that she was sitting on the counter, arms still around him.

“So, which dress?”

“This one.” He tangled his hand in her hair, tipping her face up to him. “I like this one.”

“This one it is.” She looked down at what she could see of it. “Award thing’s tomorrow night. Better get by the cleaners early.”

“Mmm.” Clark was blushing. “They open at 7. I’ll be there at 7:01.” He kissed the top of her head. “I really like this dress. Think you’ll wear those shoes?”


End file.
